


These Are The Places I've Been

by Goodnightsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 23:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodnightsammy/pseuds/Goodnightsammy
Summary: Waking up on a motel floor with a gun to your head is not particularly comforting, let me tell you. Especially when that gun belongs to your dead father, and you somehow made your way to 1993 overnight. OR In which Sam wakes up in 1993 and decides that Time Travel sucks. Set in early season 8 (after Southern Comfort), back when the brothers were still fighting. Rated T for language





	1. The Arrival

Waking up on a motel floor with a gun to your head is not particularly comforting, let me tell you. Especially when that gun belongs to your dead father, and you somehow made your way to 1993 overnight.

"Who are you?" His familiar growl doesn't scare me as much as it used to, in fact, the voice seems to ground me for a moment, "And what the hell are you doing in my motel room?" Heh, Hell if I knew, I want to tell him. He looks so much younger than the last time I saw him, and my heart almost hurts with the memory of our last encounter. _Can we just stop fighting?_ Wrinkles are only starting to form at the corner of his eyes, maybe because he never really did smile that much, and his salt and pepper hair is still so much more pepper than salt. I start to wonder if he knows about it yet, about Yellow Eyes' plan and the demon blood. The thought settles uneasily in my stomach. My skin starts to crawl and I feel the sudden urge to scrub it clean.

Slowly, I bring my hands up in a mock surrender, "I'm Sam, Sam Wesson." The lie flows easily off my tongue from years of practice and I want to scream at him. _You taught me how to lie like that!_ He cocks his head to the side as if considering what I've told him. He doesn't lower the gun. _Never trust anyone_ echoes in the back of my mind.

"Great, now let's get to the part where you tell me why you're on my floor." He shifts the gun to have a better shot at my head. There's always a fair amount of adrenaline running through you when you stare down the barrel of a gun, I've noticed.

"I don't know," I sigh, eyes scanning the room quickly for remnants of past hunts, for some story to formulate, they land on dad's journal, lying on the side table and open to the page on Wendigoes. "I came up here looking for a Wendigo to hunt and next thing I know," I gesture to the room quickly, before letting my hands fall back into my lap.

"You're a hunter." Dad states simply, it wasn't a question. The knowledge doesn't seem to bring him any comfort, if anything his eyes go a little darker. But he seems satisfied enough and tucks his weapon into the back of his jeans.

"You could say that," I settle on, shifting where I sat and standing up. I got a head rush from the sudden change in altitude. (Go ahead, laugh it up.) I stumble before stabling myself on the wall next to me. My father's hands twitch slightly as if he was thinking about helping me for a moment, but only slightly. I act like I didn't notice and he acts like it never happened. We've got an understanding of each other already, it seems.

I smile one of my bright, shit eating grins, the one I use on old ladies and little girls during cases, and hold out my hand. "Looks like we got off on the wrong foot, literally" I joke, dimples digging into my cheeks, "Sam Wesson, and you are?"

"Winchester," He grunts, clasping my hand in his own, "John Winchester." It's with my hands engulfing his that I realized at thirty I'm closer to my father's age than my own brother. That's also when I realized I have no idea where my brother is, or I am, for that matter.

"Pleased to meet you… John," I say eyes landing on the duffle holding Dean's clothes spilling out onto the floor. "You have a son?" I ask.

"Sons." He corrects, nodding to the second, neater duffle on the other side of the room. My own clothes tucked inside from when I was much younger, and much smaller. I choke down a laugh.

"Where are they at?" I wonder, shifting from one foot to the other, trying my best not to look suspicious.

"School." Dad says, and if I thought his eyes were dark before, well, now they were black holes sucking in all light.

"Ahh." I sigh. Sitting on the edge of one of the beds. It creaks underneath me.

"Where're you from?" John asks, and I try to ignore the metal in his words. His eyes are silently calculating. Adding up what he knows with what he thinks he knows. Looking back now I wonder if he thought I was a threat, or just some crazed drunk who just happened to show up in their room and pass out on their floor. To tell you the truth, I was hoping it wasn't the latter.

"South Dakota." The lie comes easily. Besides, I had spent more days at Bobby's house as a kid than anywhere else. "But I've been around quite a bit."

"South Dakota," He repeats, "Ever heard of Singer?"

"Bobby Singer? I've heard of him, sure. Wouldn't be surprised if he had never heard of me though. I keep to myself."

John glares, "That right?"

Of course this is the moment that Dean decides to throw the motel room door open with a look of pure terror on his face. John turns around lightning fast and I jump up from where I was seated on the bed.

"Dean!" Dad growls, "What are you doing? You're supposed to be at school! If you ditch another day they'll start asking questions." He explains, his face marred with confusion. Not so mad that he's missing school, more so the fact that he could be _caught_ missing school. His face goes cold with the next words out of his son's mouth.

"Sammy," He gasps, gulping for air as if he had ran the whole way back to the motel. I start to wonder if maybe he did. His chest is heaving, his face is pale as a sheet, and his freckles stick out like pin points. For a single solidary moment I think that he's talking about me. That he knows who I am. That some strange sixth sense told him to come running and find me. That feeling fades as quickly as it came. Childlike embarrassment is left in its place as I fight to keep my cheeks from going red. This Dean is only fourteen, five foot eight with eyes too big for his face and he doesn't even _know_ me.

"Sammy…" Dean repeats like he doesn't quite believe what he's trying to say. As if the world is imploding around him and that single name is his only lifeline. I would be flattered if he didn't look so God damned terrified. "He's gone, he just disappeared into thin air. He's _gone_." John's face goes white and suddenly all eyes are on me.


	2. Into Thin Air

John and Dean are huddled over at the small table tucked in the middle of the even smaller kitchenette. I've been shunned, not verbally but by my father's cold stare, to the other side of the room. I stood there, leaning with the back of my shoulders against the wall behind me, watching intently. Even though I wasn't privy to the story Dean was spinning that didn't mean I wasn't listening in.

He starts with empty eyes, as if looking off to a faraway place, like maybe the whole thing was just one really bad dream. Any second now he'd be opening his eyes and Sammy, I, would be there. My heart clenches with the knowledge that he used to care for me like that. I didn't even realize how much I missed my big brother until that moment, and suddenly I want to take two bounding steps toward him, pull him into my arms, and tell him _I'm right here_. Instead I stay where I am and try not to move an inch.

"He's... gone." It's almost a whisper and I strain my ears to hear it. "One second I'm going to meet him at the elementary school playground for lunch, the next he's just... gone"

"Gone, like how?" Dad asks, shifting forward in his chair. His elbows are resting on the table and his hands are in nervous, white knuckled fists.

"Every day I meet him at the playground for lunch," Dean tries, "we were sitting, talking, Hell the kid was in the middle of a story, something about a crazy dream..." He cuts off for a moment, before letting out a bitter laugh, "and poof, disappeared into thin air. I never even took my eyes off him." Dean sat back in his chair, defeated. "Wendigoes don't do that, I mean, I thought the hunt was over..." I'm not gonna say I was surprised when a knife found its way to my throat.

My father's silver knife was cold against my skin, I tried my best to look confused. I knew what he thought, he wasn't far off in his assumption. To him, I did this, and he was gonna find out how. "What are you?" His steady glare bore through me, I fought hard to avoid breaking right then and there.

"Nothing." I hissed instead, "Nothing worth hunting anyways." Now a days I found it hard to even believe that. Not with Dean acting as if I were the one to send him to Purgatory. His new found aversion of speaking to me didn't really help either. With the amount of time he spent avoiding me now a days, Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even notice I was gone.

John scoffed, but the crease between his eye brows grew deeper. "You expect me to believe that?" Dean is getting with the program pretty quick, and is standing up from the table with interest. "I mean, you show up here one minute, the next my son is gone? You've got to be damn stupid if you think you'll get the benefit of the doubt." John points out, and he digs the blade a little deeper, a bead of red appears, but there's no telling sizzle of skin. He doesn't drop the knife. Dean is behind him now, a silver flask in hand, his eyes speak of murder. If looks could kill, I'd be long dead. I try not to laugh with the knowledge that yes, one day he will hold a gun to my head much like my own father did less than an hour ago. My lips are forced open and the holy water goes down smooth. If anything the two of them look disappointed.

"What are you?" Dad demands, pressing the knife harder until the skin gives way.

"Human." I insist, "As human as I need to be, anyways." I knew that if I wanted to I could get out of his grasp in a second. I was bigger, faster, and had been doing it longer. It would be easy to escape, except for the fact that I didn't really want to.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's done with my answers. There is now a steady stream of blood flowing from my throat.

"It means I didn't take your son."

His laugh is empty, he sounds so much more broken than I remember. "Why would I trust you?" _You shouldn't_ , I want to say, _I'm lying straight to your face, don't trust me_.

It's then that I turn to my brother. He's all wide eyes and pursed lips. With my puppy dog eyes full force I plead with him. "Dean, I promise I didn't take him away from you. I promise that it wasn't me. I promise I'll be able to bring him back to you. You've just got to let me help."

For a moment he looks surprised at my words, but he doesn't respond for a long time. When he does it wasn't quite what I was expecting. "How could you help? You don't even know who we are. You don't _know_ us." There's a venom to his words that tells me I've crossed a line, but I didn't even notice there was one.

I can't tell them the truth. Not now. Not with them looking at me as if I were the scum underneath their boots. "I know a lot of things," I settle on. Eyes switching from Dean to John and back again. "I know a lot of things for a lot of reasons and you two just have to _trust_ me." I insist, "And if you do, I promise that you will get your son back." I'm staring straight into my father's eyes and I can see the exact moment he decides on letting me stay. It happens somewhere between the small twitch of his lips and when he finally lowers the knife.

Instead of voicing this though, he asks, "Why do you think we'd even keep you around?"

I draw my mouth into a smirk, eyes ablaze, "Well I'm not one to believe you'd let a random stranger, who just happened to appear at the same time your son disappeared, go. And besides, you'd have to be damn stupid to think I deserve the benefit of the doubt." John frowns at my words.

"So you do have something to do with this then?" Dean breathes, head down, staring at some strange stain on the floor.

"I never said I wasn't a part of it," I explain, "I just said I wasn't the one who caused it."

They both nod, worn out and beaten enough to accept my words. I stride across the room and snatch a dishtowel from the counter, pressing it against the wound on my neck. "Besides," I say, "I think I have a pretty good idea of where your son could be at." I turn around and slink out the door before I can see the looks on their faces.


	3. Stranger Things

To tell you the truth, when I got back to the room late that night it was not the silence that I found strange. No, the silence was normal. Me and Sam, well, we hadn't spoken outside of necessity in a little over two weeks. Not since the penny. No matter how many times I told him that I didn't know what I was saying and that I didn't remember a word of it, he would always insist that it didn't matter. What I said couldn't have even been _that_ bad right? Sure I probably made some jibes about purgatory, maybe even Ruby, but nothing life altering, right? So no, it wasn't the silence that I found strange, it was the fact that the room was empty. Or so I thought.

Sam was a pretty big guy, so when I opened the door and he wasn't immediately visible I figured he just wasn't there at all. He not being there didn't really make sense to me considering he hadn't left the room since we checked in two days ago, and his cell phone and key were still sitting on the bedside table. I didn't see any kind of note in plain sight, but for some reason his disappearance didn't register on my "big brother radar".

"The kid can take care of himself," I muttered bitterly, "he doesn't need me, went so far as to leave me stranded to prove it to himself, right? Go ahead, stay out all night for all I care." So maybe I hadn't forgiven Sam as much as I'd like to think I did. Go ahead, sue me. In my defense I had a few, okay quite a few drinks in me, and my sense of judgment was extremely impaired. I should have noticed something was wrong right away, instead, I collapsed fully clothed onto my bed. It was later that night, no, more like an ungodly hour of the morning that I got my answer. I was woken by crying.

-GNS-

I cracked my eyes open enough to see toward my brother's bed. It was empty, and I couldn't tell where the quiet sobs were coming from. Slowly, I slipped out of the bed and padded toward the sound. What I found was a ten year old boy huddled between Sam's bed and the wall. There was one little problem though, it was Sam. I knew instantly by the messy mop of brown hair and by how God damned _small_ the kid was. His little body was shaking from the force of the muffled sobs. My face softened.

"Sammy?" I breathed, dropping onto my knees in front of the boy. The tears stopped, and with a sniffle two green eyes peaked out from a forest of chocolate locks and looked curiously up at me.

"How do you know my name?" He whispered, face still mostly hidden from view. He looked heartbreaking and I wondered how anyone could ever say "no" to the kid.

"Sam, I know you're not going to believe me but—it's me, Dean," I insisted. I was kneeling in front of him, hands up, trying not to look threatening.

"Dean is fourteen," Sammy stated defiantly, "He's fourteen and you're old and you're not him you _can't_ be." The words tumble out of his mouth and settle into the silence of the night. _The kid was always so stubborn_ , I say to myself, _still is_.

"Sammy," I try, but he tucks his head back down between his knees and presses harder up against the wall. I try to reach out to him but he jerks away from my touch. "Okay," I say, "okay I get it if you don't believe me but at least get off the floor. You can use the second bed, please Sammy." He shakes his head and his hair swishes back and forth with the motion. "Fine, okay." I get up and strip the bed, pulling off blankets and pillows. I take a pillow and set it next to him, "For if you get tired," I explain. Then I cover him in one of the blankets, "In case you get cold," I tell him. His cat eyes are watching me with caution but he nods and burrows into it anyways. I walk back to my bed on the other side of the room. There I toe off my boots, take off my jacket and remove my jeans before getting back in the bed. Even though I lay down I don't fall asleep until much later on. I'm listening to his tiny breaths for what seems like hours, but is probably much shorter. I just lie there in the darkness and I don't even close my eyes until I hear them even out into sleep.

The next morning I roll out of bed to the light steaming in from the window. I find Sam where I left him last. He's curled up on the floor fast asleep in a nest of blankets and pillows. "What the Hell happened to you Sammy?" I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. "How'd this happen, huh?" I push the hair out of his eyes and press a kiss to his forehead. It's not the first time that I start to wonder what got between us, not just lately but for years, it seems.

"Wha—" Sam is bleary eyed from steep and he rubs at them with the palms of his hands.

"Shhh," I soothe, "go back to sleep tiger, I'll be back in a bit." He nods numbly as he slips back into dream land.

I snag my keys from the bedside table, eyes stopping on Sam's cell just a little longer, before stepping out into the morning air. I try not to think about if _this_ Sam is _my_ Sam, just younger, or if _my_ Sam is somewhere else. I can't handle Sam's problems right now, I decide. There's a diner across the street, and when Sammy finally does wake up he'll probably want some breakfast. I'm thinking about chocolate chip pancakes and a dimpled grin as I start down the road.


	4. Keep 'em Coming

I find my way to the nearest bar and sink down into one of stools lined up by the counter. I sag into the cracked red leather cushion. I'm nursing my beer when my father takes a seat down next to me. "Ran out of there pretty fast," He notices, motioning to the bartender that he'll have one of whatever it is I've got. I just nod and keep my eyes trained on the countertop. Lazily I'm wondering what it is that I've got. I flick my eyes down over a label that I don't recognize.

"Figured you'd follow me out," I huff, "I knew you wouldn't leave me alone after dropping something like that." I take a swig from my bottle. I'm tracing the ring of moisture it left when John speaks again.

"You look like you've lived a life enough for three men," He states, and I glance up at him, "I saw it first when you looked up at me on the floor of the room, and then another time when I," he gestures to the newly formed scab on my neck. "That didn't hurt you at all, did it?" I shake my head, I have had so much worse than the shaving nick he gave me. I almost shiver at the thought of 'so much worse'. "Nah, figured as much. It just adds to what I said earlier, life enough for three, ya know?" I shoot up one of my eyebrows, silently asking for him to explain. "I mean there, right there, looks like you're two-hundred."

"Nearly Two-hundred and ten, if you want to get technical." I mumble under my breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," I sigh, "What makes you think that?" I say instead.

"Your eyes." I'm looking at my reflection in the countertop and I'm pretty sure I know what he means. I can't help but thinking about how he would react if he knew who the eyes belonged to, and what he would do if he knew that this _wreck_ of a man was his son. Neither of us speak for a long while after.

"So do you," he pauses, "know where Sam is, I mean?" He hasn't touched his beer and I'm wondering if he just got it for show. _He's got a reputation to uphold_ , I joke to myself, _the reputation of a grade "A" alcoholic in a bar at one o'clock on a week day._

"I've got a hunch," I tell him, "there's no other place I could think of that he _would_ be at this point." I explain. I'm looking at him now and he's staring back at me and he looks so _tired_.

"Just," John starts, voice soft with something I can't place, "Is he safe there? Will he be okay?"

I'm reaching for my wallet before I realize that I don't actually have anything to pay with, and I tuck it back into my jeans. _What will Dean think when he gets back and my cell phone and key are still sitting where I left them?_ I ask myself. I hold in the bitter chuckle that starts to form in my throat with the thought that _he will probably assume I didn't want to be called_. "This isn't the place to have that conversation," I tell Dad, and he sets down bills enough for the both of us before standing up.

"Well we better get somewhere that is," he says simply. The short walk back to the motel room is taken in silence as well.

-GNS-

We're all circled around the small table, Dean and John are on one end and I'm on the other. The "them and me" mood of it all doesn't escape me. "So this hunch," my father begins, leaning towards me and looking extremely interested in what I have to say. He's got one arm on the table, his forearm is resting against it and his elbow is bent to support his weight. It almost looks like he's using it to pull himself closer. My brother is a nervous but quiet ball of energy next to him. I can tell just by the look in his eyes that he is silently stewing in all of the possibilities of what I might say. _He's dead, he's being tortured, he won't last long,_ all flicker in my mind. I can imagine _vividly_ how that must feel.

"Worst case scenario, of my hunch that is," I can feel the tension in the room at my words, and I pause a little for emphasis, "he wakes up alone on a motel room floor, nobody is there. The guy who has the room shows up late that night, figures out what's going on, he fixes this pretty quick and that's that." Confusion mars the face of the two sitting before me and I give them a small smile.

"You're kidding." Dean deadpans. He's got a dumbstruck look on his face that says that he thinks I've got to be the best damn liar on the planet. My smile only grows bigger.

"Unless I'm completely and utterly wrong in my assumption of what has happened, then no, he'll be perfectly fine." I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs. I watch the quick shift in emotions on their faces.

"He'll be safe?" Dean asks, a little timidly. I nod.

"More than safe, kid'll probably be doted on until he gets back here." I laugh, imagining a mini me and my _big_ brother, side by side. I try to keep a straight face as I visualize a little me pulling the most tragic, doe eyed expression you've ever seen and Dean just caving.

"Wait," John breathes, "if you know where he is why can't we just… go get him?" My smile falters for a second.

"It's not that simple," I exhale, the words coming out soft, "we can't."

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean demands, standing up so quickly that his chair hits the ground with a smash. The relief on his face is suddenly replaced by anger.

I press my lips into a thin line and look up at him warily, "It means that until we fix what happened there's no getting your brother back." I explain, "I'm sorry."


	5. This is Where I'm From

"So who took him, and what made you show up here?" John asks, pacing from one end of the room to the other. Dean is sitting silently in the corner, eyes wide and intent. "A demon?" I shake my head, a demon couldn't do this, but I can't explain that to my trigger happy father. I can't tell him that this is freaking _time travel_ that we're dealing with and some punk demon couldn't pull that. "What then?" He stops abruptly and spins so he's facing me.

"Something with power, a lot of power," I sigh, shrugging my shoulders.

"Something with more power than a demon?" Dad lets out a bitter laugh, "I hate to burst your bubble, but that ain't much." Dean is looking at me like I'm crazy for suggesting such a thing and I try not to crack a smile. They still think _demons_ are a big hunt, that's hilarious.

"You don't know what all is out there," I explain, "It's more likely that it's an angel or hell, a God," I'm cut off before I can continue.

"An angel?" John starts, "you've got to be kidding me. There's no such thing." The tension in the room is so high I can feel it by the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"There is, and I'm going to find the nearest library to do some research to help you find _your_ son." I say, stepping closer to him, "I'm not going to stand here all day arguing with you about what is real and what isn't." I make a move to brush past him when he speaks again.

"How do we know you aren't trying to throw us off track?" John wonders, sticking an accusing finger in my direction. Dean's head tilts to the side as if weighing the information. "How do we know that you aren't working for the _demon_ that did this? I bet he sent you here so that we would trust you, think that you were just as much as a victim in this as any of us, and we'd lose him forever, huh?"

"You won't lose him," I growl, eyes going dark, "you won't lose him because he's _safe_ right now and a demon _didn't_ do this!" I'm right in front of him now, glaring down at him. Dean looks as if any second he'd be springing to his toes to break up the soon to be fight. My fingers twitch as I try to hold back the punches I'm aching to throw.

"Seems like you know a hell of a lot about demons for somebody who _isn't_ working with one." My father says casually, letting the words roll of his tongue. Suddenly I'm fifteen all over again, too quick a temper and too darn stubborn for my own good. I lash out at him with words that could chill the spine of even the hardest man.

"Oh I do." I whisper. Somewhere along the way my hair had fallen into my eyes, and I was currently looking through the strands, the reflection in them holding hell fire. I'm well aware of how sinister I must look. "I know more than anyone should know about demons." I take a step forward, he takes a step back. "I know what their blood tastes like," another step forward, another step back. "I know what it's like to have one look out of my own eyes and do _despicable_ things to people I _care_ about," another step forward, another step back. "I know what it's like to be tainted with the same filth that flows through their veins," another step forward, another step back. Dean is up on his feet, trying without success to pull me away from John. I have him up against the wall now, forearm across his throat to hold him to it. "You said I looked like I was two-hundred," I mention, staring deep into his fear filled eyes, "you wanna know why?" A wicked grin starts to form on my face, my mouth curling upwards at the edges. I don't give him the chance to answer.

"I burned."

It almost feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room.

"I let the devil himself possess me, wear me to the damn prom like some cheap dress and then I sent his ass back to Hell. Only problem, I went tumbling with him." Dean has let go of me now and is listening, his mouth in a surprised 'o'. "Nearly two-hundred years of his torture. Knives digging into bone, skin fried extra crispy."

I rip my arm away from him now, and walk to the other end of the room. He's sagging against the wall taking deep, agonizing breaths as I continue.

"He was cold. Everybody thinks the devil burns hot, but it's cold. So, so cold." I mumble with my back to them. "He knew, and he would joke, ask if I wanted to be warmed up," I let out a miserable chuckle from deep in my chest, "and then he'd light a fire underneath me." I can hear Dean drop onto one of the beds behind me, but I don't stop. "The worst part is, when I finally did get out, the bastard never left me alone. I was scarred past repair and I would _see_ him, everywhere. Then finally, finally I'm free of him and—" I cut off for a moment, reminding myself not to let slip about Dean, or purgatory. "He should have known I was already broken enough!" I scream, "He should have known that _he_ was my God damned 'stone number one' and with him gone I could barely _stand_ not to mention hunt. Doesn't he get it?" I question, facing my father and Dean, both looking at me with a mix of pity, confusion, and worry. "Doesn't he get that I thought he was dead? I thought he would be _happy_! He should have been happy, so damn glad that he didn't have to look out for his _pain in the ass little brother_ anymore!"

My whole body is shaking and my hands are balled into tight fists. The room is silent. It comes to me in a flash what I've said, what I've revealed, and I'm crumpling down to the floor. They'll know. They'll know what a disappointment, what a failure, what a monster I've become and they'll resent me for that. They'll hate me for what I turned their _little Sammy_ into. It's then that I realize I'm crying.

"Who…" Dean murmurs, breaking the silence as he sinks down next to me, "who are you?"


	6. How Things Change

Who are you? The question echoes in the back of my mind. What am I supposed to say? What can I tell them that won't make them detest my very existence? I'm pond scum, I'm unclean, and I'm worthless. If I tell them who I am now… it can't end well. I don't know how long I've remained here, folded into myself and avoiding all eyes, but I know it's been awhile. No one has made a sound through it all and my family is left holding their breath. Dean is still crouching in front of me and I lift up my head to meet his eyes. We're so close that I can feel it when his breath catches in his throat.  
"Sam—" he starts, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. I take my hand and push the hair out of my face. Forcing myself up on one knee I continue to look straight at him.  
"I'm not your brother, Dean," the words sound more like the truth than they have the right to, "but I knew him once." And I did didn't I? I used to know the naïve little boy who wasn't the empty shell of a man and whose brother never stopped loving him with his whole heart. I used to know that dumb kid who wasn't broken and scarred and whose brother wouldn't put a gun to his head and tell him that they weren't, brothers that is. I used to know him.  
Dean rocks back on his feet to stand and his eyes never leave mine. "I just, I thought with the way you were talking—" he cut's off for a moment, and I can tell that he's thinking, "what do you mean you used to know him? He's ten, how did you used to know him?"  
I send him a small smile as I whisper, "Time travel." He steps back so that I can get up from the floor, his jaw hanging open. "You'll catch flies," I joke.  
"You're from the future?" He exclaims. His awe is clearly evident on his face. John is sending me a calculating gaze from the end of the room. I see him nod to himself but I'm not sure why.  
"The future?" Dad asks, his deep voice rumbling with the words.  
"Tail end of 2012 to be exact."  
"What so are there like, flying cars and robot butlers and stuff?" Dean wonders. I fail in holding back my laugh and the sound comes rolling out of me.  
"Um, no flying cars, but you might be able to buy a robot butler for a couple hundred bucks, probably won't be able to talk tough. Those Roomba things are pretty cool." I say with a smirk.  
Dean is about to ask me what the hell a Roomba is when John steps in, "So how did you know Sam?"  
Dean goes quiet at the same time I do. "We were close, for a time," I sigh, "he was hunting the same thing as me and we happened to run into each other." I don't notice how John's face falls at my words. "We finished the hunt together, and we stayed in touch for a while." I tried to make my story simple so there weren't any details I could slip up on, but I see Dean glaring from across the room. I can tell he didn't believe a word I said.  
"Where was I?" He demands, arms crossed and green eyes ablaze.  
"You weren't there."  
"I got that captain obvious. Where was I?"  
It's then that I realize he thinks he will never leave me. He thinks that we'll go through life, I don't know, hunting, living, whatever it is, together. He thinks that everything will be fine and dandy. He doesn't know in less than eight short years from this very moment I'll get a letter from a fancy school and I won't look back. He doesn't know that four after that he'll show up on my doorstep for the first time in two years and he'll never admit it but he missed me. He doesn't know that two more from that moment I'll be dead and he'll make a damn deal for my life. He doesn't know that another year more and he'll be ripped down into Hell and I'll have nothing. He doesn't know that I'll find comfort in the arms of a demon, he doesn't know I'll practically be one myself. He doesn't know.  
A harsh chuckle boils up to the surface and spills out of my throat. "You were gone, Dean. You were gone and he had no one."  
The denial that covers his face now is so God damned heartbreaking that I want to take it back. Except I know that if he never hears this from me he'll never learn, and he'll go through life wondering why I couldn't be something I'm so clearly not. I know he'll never stop thinking about how things went wrong instead of accepting that they were always going to go wrong in the first place. So I take a breath in, this is what happens when I let it out.  
"Life isn't perfect, Dean. Life isn't perfect and you aren't perfect and Sam isn't perfect. One day he'll leave you or you'll leave him, but here's where things will change. You'll find someone. Sure, maybe they won't be little Sammy but if you look there will always be someone there who loves you, Dean. You need to know that. Even if or when he leaves you he will always love you. But he won't have anybody. Whatever sense of peace he thinks he'll find it will end up dead, gone, or would be using him from the start. Somewhere deep down he knows that, and that's why he always walks away. Not because he's stubborn and not because he hates you, but because he knows that you will always have someone and he'll just be the three legged dog that you drag around with you everywhere. So no, you weren't there, and to tell you the truth, it doesn't really matter where you were. He was alone, Dean. He was alone and so lonely because of it."  
"No." Is the only sound that comes out of his mouth, "no you're wrong."  
I shake my head, because don't I wish I was?


	7. Chocolate Pancakes

Sam is sitting at the table swinging his legs back and forth with glee. He has a wide, dimpled grin plastered to his face and I can tell he's missing a tooth or two. Chocolate and syrup is dripping from his smile as he shoves pancakes into his mouth with the kind of gusto that only a ten year old could have. His sticky smile tugs at my own lips and I don't even bother hiding my amusement. "You sure do like those things," I laugh. Glancing up at me quickly, he sticks out his tongue before switching his gaze back to his meal.

When I had gotten back to the motel Sam was still huddled tight into the corner, except this time he was awake. His little arms were wrapped around his little legs as he sat with his back pressed firmly against the wall. I had set the Styrofoam boxes I had gotten from the diner down on the small table every room has and made my way over to him. When I knelt down in front of him, the most non-threatening look I could muster plastered on, his eyes were wide with fear, confusion, and a little bit of hope.

"Where's Dee?" Sammy had asked. I was suddenly reminded that though he had grown out of constantly using the nickname around six, he still referred to me with it when he was scared for many years after that. My features went soft remembering not too long ago when a drunken Sam had used that same form of endearment. Of course he was six and a half feet of gangly limbs and black out drunk embarrassment so I hadn't given it much thought at the time. It had seemed more pathetic than cute, finding Sam that wasted all alone in the motel room that night. Walking through the door he had sent me a breathy 'missed you Dee' that I had shook off as nothing but a drunken slur of speech. Looking back at it made me furrow my brow for a moment.

"I told you," I insisted, crossing my arms.

"Nooooooooo," He had drawn out, "you lied to me."

"Stubborn kid," I scoffed, "well since you still don't believe me I guess I'll just have to finish these chocolate chip pancakes all by myself." I teased, letting my eyes trail over to where the take out containers were located. "I don't know if I'll be able to eat all of that, though." I decided, and Sam's eyes flashed, "Do you happen to know anyone who could share them with me, someone, say ten years old, with an awesome big brother, and who just happens to loooove chocolate chip pancakes?"

Sam shook his head, adamantly.

"You sure?" I had asked, he had nodded. "Alright then…" I slowly walked back to table with exaggerated steps, then plopped down into one of the seats with a sigh. "I reeeaaally wish someone would share these with me," I sighed, flipping open one of the containers. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him move. I set the food in front of me and took a large bite, "mmmmmmmm, these are some of the best I've ever had!" I exclaimed. Quickly and silently my _little_ brother had slipped into the seat across from me. I had smiled.

That's how we ended up here.

Sam went to wipe at his face with his shirt sleeve, "Napkin!" I exclaimed, lurching forward to stop him. "Dude, you don't have any other clothes yet and I don't want you ruining the only stuff you have!" I passed him a napkin, he gave me a sheepish look before cleaning off his face.

"Sorry," Sammy mumbled, eyes cast down.

"Don't worry about it, Tiger, we'll get you some more and then you can wipe away syrup with your sleeves all ya want."

"Really?" He breathed, a little mystified. "Dad never buys me new clothes, I always get Dean's."

I noticed the too big sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and how his little legs were drowning in too much pants. Hand-me downs. Sure I knew Sam had gotten them as a kid, and sure maybe sometimes they were a little big, but they had room to grow! This was ridiculous. Kid could be swallowed whole with all the extra fabric hanging off of him!

"Are they always that bad?" I wondered, getting up from my seat to inspect them.

"Not always," Sam whispered, his face suddenly full of shame, "It's just, Dean went through a growth spurt last year and I needed new school clothes. Dad had used the last of the spending money on ammo and this is all we had." The words spilled quickly out of his mouth. His eyes were trained on the table and clearly avoiding mine as I kneeled in front of him.

"Hey," I lowered my voice to be as soothing as possible, "Hey Sammy look at me." He did, slowly. "That's nothing to be ashamed of, okay? That's not your fault, alright? You know what? We'll go today! After we clean up I'll go find us a nice department store and you can get all the clothes you want. Does that sound nice?"

He nodded eagerly at the suggestion, causing his hair to fall into his face. Cautiously, I rolled onto my toes and reached out to push it away, threading it back behind his ears and finishing with a soft kiss to his forehead. Then I rocked back to my heels before standing. I cleaned of the table quickly, throwing way the plastic utensils and Styrofoam packages. My thoughts drifted chocolate pancakes and _little_ little brothers. I absent mindedly swept the crumbs off of the table and on to the floor when I realized that Sammy was watching me. I turned to face him.

"What's up? Changed your mind? You don't want to go?" The questions spilled out of my mouth as I tried fervently to figure out what was wrong. I wanted nothing more than to get rid of that heartbreaking look on his face.

"Are you," Sam started, looking so lonely and so confused, "you're really Dean, aren't you?"

As the words registered my frown turned quickly into a bright, shining grin. Then, smiling at him more gently than before I ruffled his tangled mop of brown hair.

"Yeah Sammy, I am."


	8. Harsh Realities

 

Okay, so storming out without another word after my latest display probably wasn't the best idea I've ever had. All that random wandering around town, however, did prove useful when I found my way to the town's library.

I scaled the three concrete steps to the door, before swinging it open and making my way inside. The library was pretty small, with a single desk for a check out area in the front, followed by scattered tables and comfortable chairs. Farther back were the rows and rows of books, coupled with a line of privacy cubicles. The stairs where off to the side, and the sign was labeled 'Teen and Youth'.

I slinked through the shelves with ease, quickly making my way to the back. I don't really think an angel did this, so I was going to start with my first assumption. Trailing my fingers along the spines of the books I started reading off each of their titles mentally. When they brushed over one entitled _A Brief Summary of the Gods,_ I stopped and pulled it out of its place. It was a thick book, holding many pages in its worn binding, and exactly what I needed.

I brought it over to one of the cubicles in the corner. Looking up over the top of it I found that the library itself was mostly empty. The lady manning the checkout counter was chatting easily with someone, and a few people were scattered around reading lazily. I sunk back down into my chair and flipped open the book I had chosen. I grabbed a pencil out of the small tin can at the desk, plus a slip of notepaper, before settling in.

For the next couple of hours I scanned my eyes across every page, searching diligently for an answer to why I was here. Well, not _here_ like where I was sitting _here_ , more like why I was in this _time_ , but that technically could be considered- okay you know what never mind.

Around two hours in I saw something that caught my eye. The Greek goddess Hebe. She was the daughter of Zeus and Hera. It was said she was believed to give eternal youth. One myth says she gave Lolaus his youth back so that he could defeat Eurystheus. But get this, she was also worshipped as the goddess of forgiveness. If she was the one doing all of this, then the source was probably in 2012 instead of back here in 1993.

Of course, I know why she would do this. Let me tell it to you this way, dumb and drunk I beg for forgiveness, and ask why things couldn't have been the way it was when we were kids. A goddess grants that very desire, just a little more literal than I had hoped. But if she was the one up to this, than why did we just switch places instead of, you know, me just getting a lot younger? What does she get out of all of this? And an even better question, how do I explain that this is her doing to Dad and Dean without giving away who I am? I have to find out an answer for at least the latter, and fast, because closing time is quickly approaching. I tuck the book back in its rightful place, silently assuring myself I'll come back for it again when I need it again, besides, I had jotted down some quick notes of my own.

When I exit out into the open air it occurs to me that night has already fallen, and that it was much later than I had first thought.

" _Shit_ ," I huff, hitching my jacket up a little higher on my shoulders, before picking up my pace. That's when I realize I don't even remember where the room is. I have the general idea, but I hadn't been paying attention to where I was walking and now I lacked all sense of direction.

An additional hour of unfamiliar street names and awkward glances later I finally made my way back to the motel. My fingers and toes were numb from the cold, fall breeze, and I was pretty sure my nose was pink. I rapped on the door three times before stepping back.

It swung open almost immediately.

My father's worried face greeted me, "Where in _hell_ were you?" He snarled, voice low, but I was surprised to hear the slight relief in his tone.

"I got lost," I replied timidly. I kept my eyes down and ducked my head slightly, "sorry."

"Its fine just don't do that again." John sighed, moving so that I could get by, "Get on in here now."

I slipped past him and into the warmth.

Dean was asleep underneath the covers of the second bed. I glanced at the clock. It was only nine so I shot a confused look back at my father.

"He was exhausted after you left," Dad explained, his eyes were soft, "Passed out a couple hours later, after I had finally convinced him not to try to wait up for you." He shook his head a little before meeting my eyes. "That was some stunt you pulled today."

"I know, I got carried away. D- my brother tells me that I need to just forget about half of my problems and leave the other half bottled up but then that results in outbursts like you recently witnessed, and, well I'm sorry, I guess." My voice trailed off into nothing.

"No, don't apologize, it needed to be said." John states. The military man in him clearly evident when he says, "The boy needs to learn sooner or later that life ain't all it's cracked up to be. If he doesn't then he'll just be damned disappointed when he gets there."

I give him a small nod. Suddenly I feel the wave of guilt that I had been waiting for since it had happened, hit me hard. _I_ had just stripped away my brother's innocence. It wasn't dad, it wasn't a bad hunt, no, it was _me_. The revelation sits heavily in the pit of my stomach.

"Why didn't you tell him when you had the chance?" Dad asks. "He'd be a lot more understanding and a lot less worried out of his mind." The words pull me out of my train of thought and my head snaps toward him.

I tilt my head in question. "Tell him what when I had the chance?"

"Don't play a fool with me, boy." John laughed, honest to god guffaw, head falling back and everything.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I insist, and really, I didn't. I have no clue.

"Boy, I knew who you were practically the minute I first laid my eyes on you." He explains, his smile creeping into his words, "then Dean comes running in, talking about missing brothers and all that, just solidified it really."

I'm starting to catch on to what he's implying but I can't believe a word of it, not until he says it, not yet. So I stay silent and let him continue.

"I almost told him then and there, 'what are you talking about, your brother ain't missing'." The pause for a breath feels to me as if it were a lifetime. "Cause no matter how much you think you've changed in the twenty something years it's been, well," He looks at me, really looks at me, all fatherly like. I can't remember another time in my life he's looked at me quite like it, except maybe Cold Oak, when he was trying to say a million words with a single glance.

"Sam, I'd recognize my own son anywhere. The second you looked up at me with your puppy dog eyes and God damned tragic look on your face I thought, 'that's my baby boy right there', and I never doubted it for a second. Question is, why have you been trying to hide it so hard?"


	9. It's Good to be Back

"So you knew it was me, basically the whole time?" I ask, fumbling with the empty bottle in my hands.

We had made our way back to the bar from earlier today so that Dean could get some sleep. We were currently tucked in a table near the back. The lights were dim and the beer was water, the entire scene was familiar in the way only a life on the road could create. It was warm, easy, and comfortable.

John nods, "Of course." He says it simply, as if I never could have been anyone but. "And your brother, how do you think he's holding up with," he gestures toward me with the hand that isn't holding on to his drink, "this."

I let out a breathy chuckle, "Dean is probably having the time of his life right now," I set my bottle back down on the table, "Who wouldn't? He got his little brother back, right?" _He finally got rid of me._

"So you don't think he's worried about you, not at all?"

I shake my head, "No, probably not." _Definitely not._

"That's all kinds of crazy, boy," John insists, taking a swig from his own beer, "Your brother loves you more than he loves living. A blind man could see that."

"Yeah but—"

Dad raises an eye brow.

"Things between us lately, they haven't been good, to say the least. He's mad at me for something I can't change now, even if I wanted to. And it's like, this one way that I've failed him, takes the cake." I go quiet for a second, considering. "And suddenly, every other thing that I've worked so hard to be forgiven for, things that _I gave my life_ to be forgiven for, are fair game again." John flinches a little at my words, like he suddenly remembered my earlier outbursts, and the secrets that I had told. "He's angry, all the time." I sigh, "Which I get, I do. I would be angry too but," I lower my eyes back down to the table top, "We don't speak anymore. You never really notice how much you speak to another person until you just don't anymore. He goes out, I stay in, he comes back ass crack of dawn, I pretend like I slept. We're in this viscous cycle and we couldn't break out of it if we tried, if we even wanted to try." _I want to try, it's him who doesn't care anymore._

John breaks in, "It can't be as bad as you think it is. He's a big boy, he'll get over it."

"He tells me things sometimes, and I know that half the time he doesn't really mean it, but when it's the only thing you actually say to someone it starts getting to them. The last time he said it, well, I _knew_ he meant it."

"What'd he say?" Dad asks, sliding his newly empty bottle out of the way so that he can lean in closer.

"That I'm a terrible brother," I shrug, "That about sums it up. Which would be fine, well not fine but I'd understand. I've always been a terrible brother. Here's the kicker though, then he goes off about how a friggin' _vampire_ was more a brother to him in the last year than I had ever been." And Hell I will not cry here, not in front of my father, not like some lonely little boy who just wants his big brother to _hug_ him and tell him it's all gonna be okay.

"A vampire." John deadpans. He probably doesn't even know they still exist yet, but I nod.

"Benny," The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "He and Dean are thick as thieves. Dean thinks that I have no clue who is on the other end of the line of those phone calls that he keeps getting. He thinks it's some giant secret when he sneaks off in the middle of the night to go _see_ him, or whatever. It isn't though, the whole pretending to sleep thing lets me in on a helluva lot of information Dean would really rather I not know." The whole situation reminds me a Hell of a lot like Ruby, but I don't tell Dad that, I don't even bring it up. But how can what Dean is doing be okay if what I did certainly wasn't? I mean, they both involve blood, right? Heh.

John lets out a tired breath, "I guess I die pretty early on, huh?"

I bring tear up my eyes to meet his but his gaze has shifted down. "Why would you—"

"Everything has gone to Hell in a hand basket with you two boys and you haven't even brought up me once. I'm not stupid, Sam."

"You could say that," I admit.

"How many years do I got?" He trails his eyes upward, bringing them slowly to my own. I keep my mouth in a warily thin line. "It's not like I'm gonna do anything to change it, Sam, just tell me the year."

"2006."

John nods sharply and we sit in silence for a moment. "I'm going to grab another beer," Dad says, before picking up his own bottle and snagging my own.

"Alright," I reply, but he's already half way across the bar. I sink a little farther into my seat, slouching my shoulders forward, and resting my head on one of my hands. Slowly I rise and find my way to my father. He's facing the bar ordering two more beers. I clap my hand on his back. "Better make it only one," I say, "I'm gonna call it a night and start making my way over to the room."

"Well it's no fun drinking alone anyways," Dad says, before motioning to the bartender that we're through, throwing a couple bills down, and following me out.

I listen to our footsteps echo against the pavement the entire way there. Neither of us wants to speak about what was said back in the bar. Anyways, I'm used to the silence.

When we get to the parking lot he tells me he needs something from the Impala, and tosses me the room key with a quick "head on in".

I open the door to find a wide awake Dean sitting on the edge of his bed.

"You're back." He breathes, relief clear on his face. "You were gone and so was Dad and I thought—" He cuts off from what he was saying and just looks at me, "You're back."

"Yeah," I smile, it's thin and forced, with no real happiness behind it, "I'm back."


	10. The Things You Notice

_Little_ Sammy's _little_ hand was currently being engulfed by my own, much larger one, as we made our way through the aisles of the department store. His baggy sleeves were hanging limp down where they bunched up at his elbows, and his too long jeans dragged underneath his feet. Sam was a sight, to say the least. I was one as well, my face going tomato red every time someone would stop to tell me how _adorable_ my son was. I never bothered to correct them, just nodding and thanking them, Sam never bothered to either. In fact, I saw him grin a little wider each time they did.

Anyways, his hand never budged from my own. Which is surprising considering not even five minutes before he had been dead set against it. He had looked me in the eye and said, "I'm ten, Dean. I'm too old for hand holding." I held in my laugh the best I could when he had said it, arms crossed and mouth in a thin, straight line. But I kept insisting and finally he caved. And if I noticed that he held on a little tighter when we entered the giant store, well, I didn't say anything.

The kids clothing section was located in the middle of the building, across from the toys and just around the corner from bedding. I had assured Sam, for the ten thousandth time, that he could pick out whatever he wanted, (within reason of course, I mean I'm not buying the kid a hundred dollar pair of jeans), and he was happily looking at the assortment of clothes.

That's the thing, Sam was happy. He was happy in a way I hadn't seen on my own Sam in years. And no, it wasn't like I expected Sam to be all 'carefree smiles and childlike glee' every second of every day, but it'd be nice to actually _see_ a smile. He just seemed so worn down lately. He never sleeps, (he thinks that I don't notice but I do, how could I not?) he barely eats, and he hardly ever steps outside any of the hotel rooms we crash at after we've arrived. Sam is deteriorating right before my eyes and I can't even ask the guy what's wrong.

Because I know what's wrong.

I'd be a liar to say that I didn't. I know what's wrong with him and I know the exact moment it went wrong. The damn penny and whatever I said when I had it. Sure, I know he wasn't doing so hot before that, and I know that constantly reminding him how he let me down didn't really help his state of mind, but the penny is when it really started going downhill. For the first time I found myself wondering what exactly it was that I had said to him. I mentally made myself a promise to find out, soon.

I glanced down at Sammy who was eagerly waiting to be turned loose on the endless expanse of clothing. "Three shirts, three pairs of pants, okay?" He nodded excitedly, "Alright then." I let go of his hand and he was off like a rocket. As he explored the forest of graphic t-shirts, I picked him out some socks and underwear. The kid was especially excited about a shirt adorned with Superman's logo straight across the chest. I never could convince Sam that Batman was better.

"Really? _That_ one?" I teased, Sam's face fell, "I mean, Superman is sooooo lame." He stuck his tongue out and clutched the shirt to his chest.

When we reached the checkout, we had gotten three pairs of jeans, socks, and underwear, _four_ t-shirts, _I insisted he get the Batman one as well_ , one plaid shirt, and a toy airplane, _I just couldn't resist those God damned eyes of his._ The cashier thought he was adorable, telling him as much as Sam grinned brightly back at her. Each item was scanned and placed into a single, large plastic bag.

"That'll be one-o-two-ninety-eight." I dug a spare credit card out of my wallet to pay. I thanked the lady and continued on to the exit.

When we headed back to the car I noticed Sammy was silent. And not that comfortable silence he gets himself into, sometimes. The one where he doesn't speak with words but with knowing glances. No, this was the _other_ silence, the brooding one.

I slowed down my pace so that he could catch up, before reaching down and ruffling his hair.

"'Sup little man?" I asked, tilting my head towards him. "What's got ya thinking so hard?"

"Nothing." Was the reply.

"Don't even try to lie to me Sam." _We all know how well that works out._

"It's just—are you sure that the clothes weren't too expensive? We could return them. I don't really need them… honest!" His voice was frantic with worry.

"Hey," I soothed, over the litany of 'I don't need them' coming out of the small boy's mouth. "Hey." I dropped in front of him to meet his eyes. I gripped his shoulders, firmly, trying to comfort him. "We're okay. We can afford it, trust me." Sammy sniffled.

"You sure?" He mumbled timidly.

"Positive. Don't worry about it, dude. I got it under control." I sighed and stood, but I kept one of my hands on his shoulder. "You're okay now, right?"

He gave me a small nod in return.

"Good." I gave his shoulder a quick pat before continuing to lead him back to the car. For the second time today I found myself wondering how the Hell things got so bad Sam didn't even think he deserved new clothes. I don't know what scared me more, the fact that Sam doesn't know that he does, or that he's always had such little self-worth. The scene reminded me some-what of Sam now, quiet, subdued, walking on eggshells around me.

When we got back to the room, I decided to make a long overdue phone call.

-GNS-

Dean!" Garth's voice rang happily over the line. I had left Sammy to his plane and stepped outside for a second to make the call.

"Hey Garth." I brought my hand to my head in hopes of stemming the headache that was beginning to form.

"What's happening man?" He chimed. I could almost picture him, leaning back in his chair with his legs propped up on the nearest surface, phone sandwiched against his shoulder and his ear like some thirteen year old girl.

"Nothing much, look," I said, getting straight to the point, "The hunt not too long back, the haunted penny or whatever, I was just wondering something."

"Yeah? You were wondering what you said to your brother?" Garth replied, I could hear the snarky look on his face through the phone.

"How'd you—never mind. Yeah, I want to know what I said that was so bad."

"Maybe you should ask Sam. This isn't really my place to tell and I don't want to go stepping on any toes and—"

"Garth." I warned, "Just tell me what I said."

This is where things got worse.

"It started out, well it started out damn confusing if you asked me, but I'm not all caught up on the Winchester history so… You said something about Ruby? And Demon blood. There was some mention about being soulless, yeah I definitely remember that part… And a girl? Not Ruby, I don't think, a different girl."

"No no no, that doesn't make any sense. That would make him mad, sure, but not like how he… not withdrawn like he's been lately." I was shaking my head, and pacing slowly back and forth in front of the door.

"That wasn't all you said," Garth exhaled. "You said," he paused.

"Spit it out man!" I growled, but soon I noticed my mistake and lowered my voice so Sammy couldn't hear. "Just, what did I say?"

"You said that some Benny guy was a better brother to you than Sam had ever been."

And Hell if that didn't just suck all of the air out from my lungs.

He couldn't seriously think that, could he? He couldn't seriously believe that  _anyone_ was more important to me than him. How could he even think for one second that some down south vamp could replace him?  _Because you told him so, dumbass._

"Thanks Garth." I say, hanging up quickly.

It makes sense now.  _Everything_  makes sense now. The brooding, the not talking, the not sleeping, the locking himself up in the room and never coming out… it's all because he thinks that I hate him.  _I don't. I never could._ Sam, Sammy has been all I've got since forever and he doesn't even  _know_  it. My chest hurts a little at the revelation. How could I let him go through life like that boy inside who doesn't even think he deserves a new pair of jeans? How could I let him live thinking he wasn't worth  _everything_  to me?  _How have I been so damn stupid?_  Suddenly there's only one thing in the world I want to do.

Get my brother back.


	11. An Understanding

Dean has some abandonment issues. If there was anything you could say about my brother it is that he is afraid of being alone. That same fear is what motivated some of the most pivotal events in our very lives. It is what made him come and get me from Stanford, it's what made him turn the car around the night Jess died, hell it's what brought me back to life. When I think about it, maybe that's why he was so upset that I didn't look for him while he was in Purgatory. Maybe he was always just upset that he couldn't stand the thought of being without someone, and he just couldn't understand how I didn't go to the ends of the Earth to find him, when he so obviously would have _needed_ to do the same for me.

That's the thing, though, is that he also could never seem to see that I didn't just not look for him because I didn't care, I didn't look because I thought he would be better off without me. Years and years worth of self-hate always on clear display, always _right there_ in front of his face, and he had always been blind to it. He always would just see what he wanted to.

So Dean has some abandonment issues. Ask any psychologist and they'd spew out some crap about how it was rooted in _deep childhood trauma_. Hell, I could have told him that one. His mother died when he was four, old enough to remember her. After an event like that a kid would need stability, what he got was the rug pulled out from under him. Having his own room quickly morphed into seedy hotel beds, home cooked meals faded into distant memory as fast food and crappy diners became more and more frequent. The kid was the poster child for a messed up childhood. All of this coupled by his father frequently leaving him to fend for himself, and his baby brother.

I wasn't surprised when he seemed overly relieved at our return, I was more surprised he was relieved about _my_ return.

I mean, who was I to him? Some guy who had shown up when his brother disappeared. And sure, I might be his only _current_ hope to getting him back, but there were other ways besides some stranger he just met.

And unless he had super stealthy observation skills like my father, well, he didn't know who I was. Dad and I had seemed to come to some silent agreement: My identity was to remain a secret, and when I chose to reveal it to Dean, _if_ I chose to reveal it to Dean, it would be me who told him. With the way things have been going lately, the chances of that happening were slim. Why in Hell would someone tell their fourteen year old brother that this—shell of a man in front of him was what his own little brother was soon to become.

For the moment though, I hid my confusion behind my mask of—indifference. I only nodded slightly to my brother before I let my small smile slip from my lips. I walked a little farther into the room to clear the doorway.

Dad slid into the room behind me. He slipped a folded up sheet of paper into his back pocket before acknowledging Dean and I. He stopped next to me.

"I thought you were sleeping, Dean. Thought I told you not to wait up." John's words were casual but my brother still snapped to attention. _Daddy's little soldier_ sing-songed in the back of my mind.

"Sorry Sir," Dean says, eyes locked with his father's, "I just woke up and saw you were gone too and… I thought maybe something had happened."

"Nothing happened," Dad amends, then with a calmer, softer tone, "We're fine, Dean. Me and Sam _Wesson_ here just went out and had a chat is all." His emphasis on my second name was not easily missed.

"Just a couple of things we had to clear up," I agree, Dean's gaze now turning back onto me. His mouth is in a little 'o' shape. _He's so young, God he's so young._

"Alright," He sighs, after a moment, shifting where he sat on his bed, "guess I'll just—sleep then." He fell back onto the bed, eyes closed. He was exhausted, I could see that now.

Later, after Dean's breaths finally evened out into sleep, I approached my father.

"What's the paper say?" I ask, resting against the wall near him.

"The one I got from the car?" He confirms, looking up from the entry he was reading in his journal. I nod. "It's just a list of all the things I've got stocked up in the trunk. I figured, you were always a smart kid, and sooner or later you were going to find out what did this and how to fix it. I just wanted to make sure we had everything you needed when you did." John explains. "So did you? Figure it out that is. You were gone an awfully long while."

I pushed off of the wall. "It's a God. Greek Goddess to be exact. In mythology she's usually referred to as Hebe."

"A God?" My father huffs in disbelief, "What has happened in all those years to make you be able to say that with a straight face? Never mind, don't answer that." John swirls his hand in the air for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. "So what does she have to do with this?"

"She's the goddess of youth," I clarify, "and, get this—forgiveness."

"So what? You think because some fight with your brother she switched the two of you? Little Sammy and the Hulk here? But why? What would she get out of it?" John wonders.

"That's exactly what I've been trying to figure out myself. I mean, it could just be a game."

"A game?" Dad repeats, dumbfounded.

"A lot of things like playing games with me, it seems." I chuckle bitterly in remembrance of Gabriel's idea of fun.

"So tell me you have something to go on. Anything." John's tone is almost pleading when he says it.

"I have a lot more than something." I tell him, "I know how to summon her."


	12. Summoning Some Answers

It turns out that the summoning ritual was pretty simple. First you char an olive branch, crush it up, and mix it in a chalice with lamb's blood. Second, light five, white candles, and arrange them around the chalice. Finally, it requires the blood of one who wishes to be forgiven. A quick slash to my own palm does the trick. The spell itself is pretty straight forward, as well. Just say it while letting my blood drip into the mixture.

"Ad ueniam adulescentiae meae invocabo te. Invocavi filia Iovis pincerna deorum. Veni, Hebe enim credam in te." The Latin rolls smoothly off my tongue. I wrap a spare cloth around my and look up quickly to see if it worked.

The room was in darkness, Dean and Dad were a few feet away from the table I was standing behind. The candle light casting odd shadows across their patient faces. There wasn't a sound, not even a breath. The next thing I noticed was how still they were, neither one blinking. I noticed how the flame in front of me stopped flickering. It was almost as if time had stilled and only I wasn't suspended in it.

"Sam Winchester. Why do you call upon me, boy?" I turn quickly toward the voice.

Hebe is covered by shadow where she stands in the corner. The light of the candles barely reach her face. Even in the dark I can tell that she is beautiful. She is wearing a long, flowing dress that reaches the floor, and her toes peak out at the bottom, revealing golden sandals. Her thick, black hair is tied back in twin braids, and her piercing eyes bore into me.

"What is wrong with them?" I ask instead, nodding towards John and Dean. Her brow furrows as if she doesn't understand why I would ask such a thing.

"Time has slowed down so that I could reveal myself to you. I am eternal youth, time to me has no meaning. I have simply pulled you from it, so that we may speak," Hebe answers calmly, explaining it to me slowly, as if I were a child. Her voice is sweet, and smooth like honey. "Why have you called me to this place?" She turns her head to look around at her surroundings.

"I believe that you have put me in this time," I explain, "I'd like to go home, if that's alright with you."

Hebe tilts her head and steps away from the shadows. "Have I not given what was requested? Have I not supplied you with 'the way things were', and given you forgiveness for your wrong doings?" She looks genuinely curious.

I shake my head, firmly. "I never asked to be sent back here. I never _wanted_ to be sent here."

"And what about your brother?" She begins, "Where do you think he wants you to be? It seems to me that your new found youth is a blessing to him." I'm imagining a little me with my brother's hand wrapped around his. I can see my bright smile matching Dean's, a smile I haven't seen in—forever. I'm suddenly doubting myself.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I deny, breaking my gaze away from hers.

"But don't you? You must know how _pathetic_ you are, how much of a _disgrace_ you are." Her words are like knives and I squeeze my eyes shut.

"No."

"Oh?" Hebe's lips tilt into a small smirk. Her eyes twinkling with something close to amusement. "Then why haven't you told your brother, here, who you really are?" She drifted across the room, before stroking the back of her hand gently down Dean's jaw. I want to tell her not to touch him. I want to scream at her to get her hands off of him, but I don't move. "What is it that's keeping you from admitting the truth to him? If you aren't a pitiful, broken man, what is there keeping you from telling him?"

I drop my head in shame. She's right isn't she? The whole reason that I've been avoiding telling them, was that they'd be ashamed of me.

"You are." She decides. "You are a sad excuse for a human being, and you're _afraid_ of what he'll think when he finds out that _this_ is what his little brother turns into. You're afraid of what will happen when he realizes this _thing_ in front of him is his _pride and joy_."

"What I _am_ makes no difference." I tell her, glaring. "Not to _me_ , not to _Dean_ , not to _anybody_. It's _never_ made _any_ difference."

"Not to _you_ , for that is all you are. You cannot change, no matter how desperately you wish to. But to your _brother_ —Given the choice between the child and you, I believe you know who he would choose. Hmmm." Hebe grins wickedly at me.

"Why did you do this?" I demand, stepping out from behind the table, "'Cause I know it wasn't just so that you could belittle me. Why would you send me all the way here, use all of that power, just to tell me how pitiful I am? You could have done that on any other Tuesday, trip through time or not."

"You still don't get it!" She laughs, crossing over to me. Hebe's eyes gazing into my own until she is only mere inches away. "I'm trying to teach you a lesson." Suddenly her entire demeanor softens. "I am the Goddess of _forgiveness,_ Sam. I am only trying to help you and your brother see what you both are so blind to." She's so close now that I can feel her breath on my skin.

"What would that be?" I wonder.

"It wouldn't be a lesson if I told you, Sam. You'll just have to figure it out for yourself. I'm sure you're smart enough."

"How do I get back?" I whisper dejectedly.

"You _learn_ , Sam." Her voice echoes against the walls of the small room. Hebe's gone now, and the space in front of me is empty.

The candles flicker out and the room remains silent. Distantly I can hear the sound of my own, and my family's quiet breathing. She is gone and I'm left standing, staring into the darkness hoping that maybe things could be simple for once. The air in front of me lends no answers, though. My blood is rushing to my ears almost as fast as I can feel time speeding up, and my knees go weak. I feel myself begin to sink to the floor.

"No you don't," The words seem far off and I'm being dragged upwards. Up up up. The room is spinning around me before everything fades to black.


	13. The Catalogue Kid

For a moment I just stood there, before leaning back against the door and sinking to the ground. I rested my head against my knees and if Sam ever asks, I did not cry, just had a little something in my eye. And hey, a grown man is allowed to cry for missing his baby brother, alright?

After I calmed down I slunk my way into the room and sat on the edge of the bed closest to where Sam was settled on the floor. I was content to just sit there and watch him play. He was letting his plane swoop through the air, making noises to match. The kid was enthralled with his own imaginary game.

"Hey Dean," He greeted, never breaking his gaze away from his new toy. I smiled a small, bitter sweet smile, down at the little boy.

"Heya Sammy," My voice was hoarse with grief, and soft-sounding against Sam's whooshing airplane noises.

Sam looked up at me, suddenly. His game stopping abruptly. "What's wrong, Dean?" He asked, confusion marring his face as he tilted his head to the side and slowly brought his plane back down to the floor. How Sam could always know what I was thinking or feeling was a mystery to me. Maybe it was because he grew up with me, always watching. _You're my big brother, Dean,_ echoes in the back of my mind, _I've wanted to be just like you since I was four years old._ My smile slips from my face, and a line begins to form between my eye brows.

"I just got some bad news is all. Don't let me ruin your fun." I sighed, swiping my hand down my face in hopes of wiping the tired look away. I leaned back a little, thinking that he would drop the subject and go back to his toys. Instead, I was soon startled out of my thoughts by his small voice.

"From the man on the phone?" Sam wondered, shifting his body to face mine.

I nodded slightly, "Yeah the man on the phone."

"Who was it?" Sam always was a curious kid.

"Just an old friend," I explained, moving further forward on the bed.

"If he's a friend, then what did he say to make you upset?"

I looked down at Sammy, his eyes wide, and his attention all on me, "He just told me something I should have asked about a long time ago. I should have taken the stick out of my ass, or climbed off of my high horse, or something… way before now. I'm just… regretting that I didn't… I guess."

It was Sam's turn to nod.

"Dean?" Sam asked, voice low.

"Yeah Sammy?"

"Where's Dad?" He whispered, the words sounding as if he already knew the answer.

"He's—he's not here Sammy," I tried, avoiding his gaze by casting my eyes low.

"Is he… he's dead isn't he…" My silence was answer enough. He got quiet then, and started his game up again (even if it lacked the same amount of enthusiasm as before), as if he realized there was a sort of line he was playing with, and he didn't want to cross it. He _was_ always damn smart.

Sammy was the perfect kid. I don't know why I never noticed it when I was younger because man, it was clear as day. He was any parent's dream. He wasn't too loud, and he wasn't too quiet, he wasn't too messy, and he always cleaned up after himself. He found a happy medium for everything, and was just right in every way. Plus, did I mention he was a frigging genius? It was almost as if someone went into a catalog and picked out the perfect characteristics of a child, then shoved them all into my little brother.

How could I have never noticed?

What I do remember, however, was how to _Dad_ he wasn't the perfect _anything_. It was always like for Sam, Dad had this impossible standard that Sammy could never meet. It was different for me, I was always enough, _more_ than enough. But not Sammy, _never_ Sammy. Somehow, for some stupid reason, Dad created some image of perfection for his younger son that was never quite reachable.

To Dad, Sam was just disappointment after disappointment. He couldn't run very well when he was younger due to his string-bean-bones, too long even when he was small, and too damn skinny. He wasn't the best shot either, only ever hitting five or six out of the ten cans lined up. Dad never knew how much he practiced, how much he _tried_ , I remembered thinking it wouldn't have made a difference, now I'm not so sure. Sam wasn't the perfect hunter, and therefore was most certainly not the perfect son. No matter how much Sam tried to look good in our father's eyes, it was almost as if he never cut it, he was never enough, especially when Sam was around eleven or twelve, to be exact. Looking back on it I can't understand _why_. Eventually Sam gave up trying, and switched to screaming out in hopes of being _noticed_.

It didn't matter that even though they switched schools seven times a semester Sam would still bring home straight A's. Not to dad. It didn't matter that Sam got the lead in the school play, Dad didn't go and see it anyways. The kid had been so excited too… I never did ask him why he never performed in another one.

I remember when I began to agree with Dad. When I was the most fed up with him how I would curse him under my breath and sometimes even right to his face.

"Why can't you just… do something right for _once_? Ya know? Maybe then you wouldn't—"

I would always catch myself from continuing. Losing my temper didn't mean I lost all sense. But it always felt like the rest was left hanging there, unsaid in the air between us.

_Maybe then you wouldn't be such a burden. Maybe then Dad would be happy for once. Maybe then you wouldn't be my responsibility anymore._

I never meant a word of it, most of the time.

Things are starting to make a lot more sense, now that Sam is four feet tall again. It's almost as if all the suppressed memories from our childhood are bubbling to the surface, and I can finally see it from the perspective of a grown man, not some biased child. In truth, these last couple of days I've began to understand the man Sam is now better than I would have ever thought possible. I've began to realize how each and every stone that was piled up on top of him throughout his life has made him this tortured soul who has to live every day with a mountain on his back that just keeps getting _bigger_. I've began to _finally_ see that I haven't helped him bare that weight in a really long time.

And I've started to remember something, too. Something long forgotten lying just underneath the surface. Every time I try to get close enough to see what it is, the memory slips away. But I know that it's important. I know that it is the pinnacle of whatever the hell is happening here, and as soon as I can get to it, _everything_ will fall into place. I just wish I knew _how._


	14. Confessions of a Broken Man

When I came to I was sprawled out across one of the motel beds with one hell of a headache.

"Sam?" A voice said from somewhere, before a very blurry face popped into my line of sight. "I think he's waking up!"

"Dean?" I asked, as the face faded into clarity. I took in the very worried and very confused face before me. Slowly, I sat up.

"Okay, what just happened?" John demanded, crossing over to me. I shifted my gaze to him. "One second you're chanting away and the next you're passed out on the ground. How does that work?"

"She came." I breathed. "She stopped or slowed down time or something so that I could be the only one to see her. I think the passing out was due mostly to time speeding back up…" I explained. Bringing a hand up to massage away my headache.

"And?" John asked expectantly.

"And… apparently I'm missing something. Some sort of lesson she wants me to learn before she'll, ya know…" I wave my free hand around in the air.

John nods in understanding, "So, what is this lesson?"

"Don't you think if I knew that I'd be long gone by now?" I sigh, sinking back down to the pillows and tightly shutting my eyes.

Throughout all of the talk and cut off explanations Dean had been standing quietly at the foot of the bed, intently listening to the conversation occurring before him. Now he shifts from one foot to the other, nervously as I slide up to rest against the headboard.

"What's going on?" He asks, his voice is calm, even, and low. Both dad and I turn our attention to him.

"Dean? What are you talking about?" John wonders, and Dean clenches his hands into white knuckled fists at his sides.

"I mean what is happening here? You two are keeping something from me right? Some giant secret you can't, or just plain don't want to tell me? Instead you guys are just gonna walk on egg shells around me whenever I'm in the room to keep from letting the damn cat out of the bag!" Dean exclaims, the frustration boils out of him soon enough, however, and he sinks into himself. He releases the tension from his hands and lets them hang there loosely, as he hunches his shoulders and turns his head down to face the floor.

"It's just, Sammy's my little brother, ya know? I just want to know what's happening, or how to help, or anything. And I know that you both have it figured out, right? You both know where he is and who he's with and what took him and everything. I gathered as much… I just can't figure out why you two won't tell me."

Dean looks heartbroken. In fact, if I look close enough I think I can see the shattered remnants of it lying on the floor in front of him.

I take a quick glance up at my father, his eyes are sad when he gives me a curt nod, before I lock my own eyes with Dean's.

"If I'm going to tell you this, you have to promise me you won't say a word until I'm finished, alright?" I whisper. "You have to promise me you won't interrupt me or deny what I'm saying or any of it, not until I'm done, okay?"

My brother inhales sharply, before nodding numbly in agreement.

"You might have figured some of this out already, you're smarter than you give yourself credit for so I wouldn't be surprised." I pause for a moment, breaking eye contact and taking a deep breath in.

"I am not a good man. I have done terrible things, I've run away from my problems, I have looked into the Devil's own eyes and have seen _myself_ there. But no matter how much _bad_ I've caused, I've done a hell of a lot of good too. I've saved billions of lives, I've put others ahead of myself, I've tried my best to remedy my failures and to clean up my messes. I made a lot of mistakes. Hell, I'm still making them." I close my eyes and let out a shaky sigh before continuing. I meet Dean's steady gaze once again.

"No matter what you think of me after I tell you all of this, after I explain _everything_ , I want you to remember one thing. None of it was ever your fault. Out of all the mistakes I've ever made, leaving you was always the one I hated myself the most for. _Remember that._ "

Dean's mouth is in a straight line but bobs his head in acknowledgement. Still silent.

"May second, 2001 I go to college. I had gotten my early admissions letter in December. I never told you, I kept it hidden at the bottom of my duffle. It wasn't your fault me leaving. Trust me it wasn't, you were the only reason I wanted to stay… But I don't come back. Four years later, two since we've last spoken, and you tumble into my apartment in the middle of the night. I never even bother wondering how you found me, because I wasn't hiding, not from you anyways."

"You have to understand something first, though. Before I was even born I was cursed. Already I was damned to a fate I never wanted. I was the cause of Mary's death, and I was the reason that the apartment burned down with my girlfriend in it. I'm not proud of it, but I know if I had never been born, well, a lot of people would have been much better off."

Dean looks as if he's trying to choke down his words, and John, quietly listening shakes his head sadly at my admission. Neither of them speak, though, so I continue.

"But life goes on right?" I chuckle bitterly, "Later, much later… when things get worse… when I start drinking the blood and working with demons or even starting the damn apocalypse I started to wonder when you would realize that I wasn't worth it. You left me a voicemail once… saying you should just kill me… but after that nothing. No mention of it, not even a knife to the back." I shoot him a lopsided smile. "But it was always there, that on edge feeling that one day you were just going to break. I was waiting for _so_ _long_."

"One day, not too long ago it happens. Some curse gets you to admit everything you've ever despised about me, all while pointing a gun to my head. I was never—I don't think I could ever be mad at you for any of the things you said, because I knew they were all true. Right? I had been waiting for so long for you to just come out and say it, and you finally, _finally_ did. It was more of a relief than anything, I think."

"The only problem is that you don't remember any of it. I'm not going to say it and you don't bring it up. So here I am, back to waiting again. We don't speak much… not anymore. But I can promise you that your Sam is safe. You probably walked into that room, found him sitting there, and thought that this was the best damn thing to ever happen to you. To get your little brother back. A Goddess named Hebe sent him into the future because of some lesson she wants me to learn, when really she's just making things into a bigger mess than before. I'm gonna get back there and he's gonna hate me _more_ , ya know? More than he does now because he has me back and not… not his little brother." I fight back the tears threatening to fall and look up to Dean whose own eyes are shining with them.

"So I guess, that's it." I exhale, shrinking in on myself, waiting for something. Disgust or hatred or pity or _anything_. That's not what I get.

"Sammy?" Dean whispers, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah."

"God," He moaned, something close to anguish coming into his tone as he walked around the bed to get closer to me, "What did I do to you?" He breathed, before crushing me into his arms.


	15. Don't Go Crying Little Boy

Here's what I know.

In the couple of days that Sam hasn't been—that Sam's been gone, I've tried my best to piece together exactly what it was that was happening here. Of course, when caring for a small child you could expect there was quite a few setbacks. So, though my understanding of the situation is greatly limited, I think I have a pretty good grasp on it all.

First, from what I've observed and what little Sam has told me about what he remembers, Sam has not, in fact, been changed into a ten year old. No, I'm pretty sure Sam is stuck somewhere in the thick of 1993.

Second, the chances of it being an angle who pulled this stunt are pretty slim. Considering we've both been trying our bests to keep from ruffling any feathers lately. That leaves a very small number of things left that could have done this, my best bet would be a god of some sort.

Third, whatever it was that did this, didn't do it just for kicks. Unless it was Gabriel that did this, but he's dead… right? They had a reason for it, and I'm starting to think that reason has something to do with how me and Sam have been treating each other lately.

Glancing down at the sparsely filled page of notes in front of me, I scowled. For hours I had dug around in old lore books and on the web looking for something to help me figure out how to fix it all. Nothing, nada, zilch, zero. Suddenly the thought occurred to me that maybe I should look in Dad's journal to see if he had actually written anything about the event. I brought the palm of my hand against my forehead with a soft smack. Of course. I had only just begun to consider it because of the fact that I had read the journal over a thousand times. But maybe there was something, some detail that I had missed before.

"Sammy!" I called, turning over my shoulder to see the boy criss-cross on his bed where he had been eating his pizza, eyes transfixed on some television show, dinner lying abandoned on the sheets next to him. He snapped up to look at me suddenly.

"Yeah?" He asked, wide, owlish gaze blinking up at me.

"What was the exact date that you, ya know?" I said, spinning back around in my seat and flipping open Dad's journal.

"May 26th…" He said, confused tone sneaking into his voice, "why?"

"Give me a second…" I sighed, turning pages quickly.

 _There._ I planted my finger firmly onto the page. I recognized it as one I usually skimmed over because it didn't really have any useful information in it. _Until now._

 _S._ Wesson _showed up today._ It read. _He doesn't want me to know who he is, but I'm not blind. He's been out for a few hours, I don't know if he's left or not. I'm hoping it's the second one._

Quickly I flip the page to the next day, a new entry. Skimming it I realize that I had mistook it to be a story about little Sam all along, reading it now I know it isn't.

_Sam told Dean his secret today. I'm glad, it was eating the kid up inside wondering what was happening._

Then, at the bottom of the page are phrases scrawled in messy script. _Hebe, forgiveness_ and _lesson_ were among the few that stood out. I drug the laptop back in front of me, fingers clacking against the keys.

"Dean?" Sammy called from across the room, "did you find something?"

"Something?" I asked, loading a page of the goddess up on my screen, "Dude… I found everything!"

Hours ticked by and the clock changed from six to seven to eight at night. My eyes were red and dry from staring at the computer screen. Sam had remained a constant presence over my shoulder or on my side throughout the process. From what we figured the goddess sent Sam back to 1993 because he wanted forgiveness from something. The _lesson_ that had been brought up, though, we had no clue.

"Hey," I sighed, nudging the small boy next to me gently with my elbow, "you gonna turn in for the night?"

"It's eight." Sam deadpanned, arms crossed and face set with a look of displeasure.

"Yeah and you're ten, go get some sleep kiddo." I replied, gently. Thinking the conversation was over I turned back to my work.

"Ten Dean, not five. I don't even have to _be_ anywhere!" Sammy huffed, keeping his ground. "I can help!"

"Yeah, you're doing a real good job helping from where you're sitting looking over my shoulder." I joke, mouth twitching up into a smirk. From the glare I got I let my smile drop.

"That's because you didn't even move to let me! Just 'cause I'm not _him_ doesn't mean I'm not _useful_ , Dean!" My stomach falls a little bit as I watch Sam's eyes shift to avoid my own, "Just 'cause I'm a kid doesn't mean I'm that _little_ of a kid." He whispers. His now soft voice a sharp contrast to only seconds before.

"It's not that you're not _him_ Sam, it's 'cause you're just a kid. It has nothing to do with you not being him. I want you to be healthy and happy and all that jazz. You won't be any of that if you don't get your beauty sleep, princess." I explain, expression going soft.

"You do this to the other me, too, right?" Sam says instead.

The question startles me, "what do you mean?"

"I mean, you talk down to him, or expect less of him than he actually is, or even _see him as a stupid kid_."

"You're my little brother Sam, of course I'm always gonna see you as that little kid, but—" I start.

"But I'm not. One day you're going to have to realize that I'm gonna _grow up_ , and I won't always be that perfect, angle faced little boy that you think I am. Or _whatever_ it is that you think I am. People change, they grow, they mature, whatever. Ten isn't five and thirty isn't fifteen. It's just the facts, Dean." Sam is letting his arms rest at his side, and he reaches up to swipe the stray hairs out of his face.

"I _know_ that, I do." I try to tell him.

"Really?" He says, voice low and eyes sad. He heads across the room a few paces before reaching underneath the corner of his mattress for something I can't see. Slowly, he pulls out a book. A journal. Sam's journal, but not this Sam, _my_ Sam.

He sets it down on the table with a solid thud. For some reason it seems final.

"I found this. I read it. Tell me he doesn't seem to think it's the same way I'm saying it is." Then he stands there, silent, as I go to pick up the book with shaky hands.

"How much of this did you read?" I ask, before opening it. Knowing very well what secrets could be inside.

"Most, not all. I don't think I could ever read some of the things in there." Sam's eyes say everything I need to know. Hell.

I flip open the first page. It talks about Jess. The next few are hunts or visions that Sam had those first few years. Cold oak, the deal. I stop on the mystery spot. Pages and pages dedicated to it. It's a list, I realize quickly. It doesn't make that much sense but I decipher its meaning quickly.

 _Gunshot,choaking,electrocution,poison,bowandarrow,hitbycar,brokeneck,piano_ and on and on and on. I feel tears prick at the corner of my eyes as I read. This was how I died. Every time. This was how it happened.

I keep flipping. Pages on while I was in hell, pages on heaven, pages on how much he hates himself.

Pages on his own Hell. I don't read it. Like little Sammy said, some things you could never really read.

Pages on the devil.

Pages on me in purgatory.

Pages on that girl.

Pages on how he just doesn't understand what it is that I want from him anymore.

Pages on how he doesn't know if he can live a day without me, but how living with me is slowly killing him.

"I'm sorry," I sob, fighting back the tears in vain, "I'm sorry."

Sam stands there, silent, never saying a word. Slowly he brings his hand up to my shoulder, placing it there, letting it rest against my body shaking with the force of the sobbing.

"He doesn't hate you," he says, finally, voice soft. "He doesn't hate you like I don't hate you. We never could."

I grab him then, holding him close to my chest, my arms wrapped around his small frame in a way they haven't fit around him in the longest time.

"I know." I tell him, "I know."


	16. Sunrises and Sunsets

Sometimes I pretend that I'm standing in the middle of a two-way street. And I can only face one direction but I don't know which one to choose. How do I choose? Either way I'll be looking off to the same horizon, but one sun will rise and the other will set, and I don't know which one is better. Sometimes I think that of course it would be the setting one. I like to think that walking straight off the face of the Earth, walking toward that never ending sunset and to just keep going; that would be a pretty good way to end. Other times I look at life and think that it just can't be _over_ yet, and I look the other way, out past the streaks of purple marking the rising sun. Those are the days that I like best. Ones where I can feel the wind against my fingertips as I watch the world streak past me. Ones where the colors of everything else blur and all that is left is me, and my brother, back when everything was so simple. There were a lot of rising sun days back then.

Now—now it's like all I have to hope for is that one day I'll make it to where the horizon meets the sky and that I won't be to terribly upset at what I find there.

They say that dying is an adventure in and of itself, but I've died plenty of times before… and I can tell you that dying isn't much of an adventure at all. That is just what we tell ourselves because we're too scared to accept otherwise.

I used to be afraid of dying. Way back when before everything. Now, now I would welcome it with open arms, and shake Death's hand as he walks me to my end as if we were friends. I guess I forget sometimes that not everyone feels that way. Which is probably why when I talk about it so lightly I'll get strange looks, like a slap across the face, and it forces me to understand that others don't understand me.

Maybe that's why I didn't try harder to explain myself to Dean after abandoning him to die. Because to _me_ I wasn't abandoning anyone. I was giving him what I thought he would have wanted, peace, finally.

_That's not what I wanted, Sam. That's never what I wanted._

And yeah I know that now… but before. I thought that he would be grateful for what I did, but he wasn't, not at all. He was just so _angry_. I didn't know what to do so I shrunk away, back into myself and the shadows that I don't like admitting are there.

_I didn't want peace, Sam. Not without you. We're a team, you're my little brother. And if we go down, we're gonna go down swinging, together._

I know. I know.

-GNS-

I break away from my scattered thoughts, and my brother's smaller arms, with a harsh sigh that causes my body to shake with the force of it.

"You're my brother, you know that right?" This smaller, softer version of Dean asks, voice quiet and smooth, too smooth. Did I mention how much I miss my big brother? Cause it's a lot.

I nod numbly. My head bobbing up and down like steady waves and I suddenly feel like a scolded child.

"You're my brother and no matter what you think of yourself, or what you assume I think of you, you will _always_ be my brother. You get that?" His eyes are too big, too bright, they still have that light in them that I haven't seen in forever. And I'm reminded again of where I am.

"Yeah" I breathe.

"And whatever happened that made you think you weren't worth it, all the piles of shit that cause you to become this, that will always be true. It won't ever change. You are my brother, and I'm yours. So you have to accept the things you can't change about yourself and about your life, and forgive yourself for them." Dean explains, eyes never leaving mine. "I think I figured it all out. The lesson you needed to learn? It wasn't so much about you and me, or him. It was about _forgiving yourself_ for the things you think _he_ hates you for."

And that makes sense. Doesn't it?

"Once you find a way to do that, Sam. You're on your way home."

John shifts on his feet where he is standing not too far away. "He's right, ya know?"

My father's voice is gruff and deep, like I remember it always was. "You're one of the best men I've ever met, son. But you gotta learn that you can't control everything, and what happens because of that isn't your fault."

"Okay." I say, eyes squeezed shut. "Okay."

"Cause I will always forgive you, Sam. No matter how many years it's been, no matter what you do, _I_ will always forgive you. You just have to forgive yourself." Dean pleads, "Do that, for me."

I feel my lashes brush against my cheeks as I force my throat to open. "I will."

The next thing I know, I'm standing with white knuckled fists at my sides, warm arms wrapped around me and harsh breaths puffing against shoulder. I exhale, letting the tension drain out of my body as I melt into the hug. My hands uncurling as I slide them up gently around the body in front of me and holding him just as tightly.

I let my eyes slide open as I push back, smile grazing my lips.

"Heya Sammy."

I laugh, tears bubbling out of me with it. I go to wipe them away, feeling much too young.

"Long time no see, huh? How long has it been? Twenty years?"

"Too long." And there I go again, crushing my brother against my chest. Trying to tell him everything I couldn't before with just my arms.

"I remember now." Is what escapes Dean's lips, the whisper echoing in the empty motel room "I didn't before but now that you're back… I remember—and I'm sorry."


	17. These Things We Know

When it happens it doesn't happen gradually, like a slow breath of air, no, it happens instantly. I barely have enough time to understand what is happening before _he_ was gone and _Sam_ was back. One moment _he_ is standing there, promising me to forgive himself for the things I'm sure I've already forgiven him for, and the next _Sammy_ is standing in front of me.

He seems a lot smaller now.

Neither of us speak for a while, we just stand there, watching each other with curious eyes, as if we were studying a stranger. Dad doesn't make a sound, either. He just calmly and quietly remains in the shadows, letting us learn each other again.

When the silence is broken, I'm the one who breaks it, lips turned up into a smile and fingers finding purchase on the small boy's shoulders.

"Old isn't a good look on you, short stuff," I tease, linking an arm around him and pulling him in close. _He fits again._

"Ha, not on you either, jerk."

I ruffle his hair with my free hand as he laughs.

Dad is smiling too, in a sad sort of way. I try not to wonder why.

"What was he like?" Sam asks, and I'm almost startled by how he doesn't say _I._ He doesn't take ownership of himself but instead seems to understand how different the two of them are. I wonder what _I_ told him, and if _I_ am me, or a man I wouldn't recognize if I looked in the mirror.

I don't know how to answer him, eyes wide and curious. So I don't. Dad answers instead, and I don't have to.

" _You_ were a good man, son. A _great_ man. One day you'll grow to be him," _or break to be him_ goes unsaid.

Slight anger flares up inside of me, and I fight to push it down. Some _man,_ some stranger that he knew for only a couple of days makes him so _proud._ And Dad wants Sam to become that shattered mess as if broken souls were something to be proud of.

Sam nods, head low and eyes downcast. I'm sure now that he knows more than he's letting on.

"What about me, Sammy, what was I like?" I'm hoping to change the subject somehow, trying to get the ball rolling away from the subject that is making him so subdued, and onto something else.

"You were you." He says, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head to the side, "just kinda older and more like Dad."

The words settle uneasily on my stomach. Sure I wanted to be like Dad, just not when Sam said it like that.

-GNS-

Later, Dad had left us with some dinner, greasy burgers and even greasier fries, as he went out to God knows where. He's probably drinking.

I turned to Sam who was picking at his food with disdain. I flopped down on the bed across from him, sticking my socked feet into his face to get his attention.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed, pulling away "stop it, you stink!"

I waggled my toes in front of him one more time before tucking my legs back against my chest.

"Hey Sam?" I asked, serious now.

"Yeah Dean?"

"What did you mean before, about me being like Dad?"

Sam goes quiet, suddenly. Almost as if the life was sucked out of the room.

"I don't know..." Sam trails off, turning his head away to avoid my eyes.

"Hey, c'mon," I say, "you meant something by it. Just, what?"

"You were you, I guess." Sam explains, "Still playing the big brother and all of that. But you were older, and harder somehow. You were unhappy about a lot of things, but instead of doing anything about them you just accepted them. Just, kind of tired like, ya know?" He's looking up at me now, fingers picking at a loose thread in his socks, looking all young and innocent and so much not like _him._

"Yeah, I know," I breathe, slumping my shoulders.

I'm expecting the subject to drop and for Sam to go back to whatever it was he was doing to avoid speaking before, when his quiet voice speaks up.

"How bad was he?" The words are so soft I have to strain my ears to hear them, but still they seem to echo through the room. "How bad was I?"

"Sam—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"I know that I wasn't, I know that it's bad, okay? Just not _how bad._ I just don't think I can take it if Dad says one more word about how great of a man he was when I know…" Sam's rambling trails of into silence as he drops his head. His hair falls into his eyes then, so I can't meet them with my own. "Please," He whispers, "I just need to know how bad."

"Okay," I sigh, resting my hands on my thighs as we sit criss-cross facing each other. "You were, _he was_ , kind of like a puzzle after you put it together, and then you start tearing it apart. The pieces holding onto their neighbors for dear life as they get forced away from each other. All of them turned into a giant mess where they once fit so perfectly together."

"He was sad, even when he acted like he wasn't. I could see it in his eyes every time he smiled, because something was missing there. They weren't as bright as they are now, his eyes, _your eyes._ He hated himself. I can imagine that when he looks in the mirror he sees a monster there. He hated himself and he couldn't understand why everyone else just didn't. Whenever he would reveal something about his past, _the future_ , he would always act as if he were expecting to be hit or shunned away or anything. He wasn't _whole._ "

Sam nods, knowingly. I start to wonder how much he does know about his future and what _might_ happen, what won't happen if I have anything to say about it. I don't have to wonder long.

"He had a journal. One that he kept tucked in the corner of his bag, I- I hid it underneath the mattress so that I could read it at night." Sam tells me, pulling his knees up to his chest and holding on tightly. His eyes peak out from underneath his mess of hair. "It wasn't... good things that he wrote about."

"I can imagine."

"Terrible, terrible things dating back to-" Sam stops himself.

"Back to when you first left, right? Back to college?" I ask.

"Yeah, to Stanford." He replies, eyes hidden again. He thinks I'm mad at him. I'm not, I'm really, really not, but I don't say anything, just let him continue. "I couldn't read all of it, Dean. Some of the things he wrote about, some of the things he described in there... compared to them my dreams are like cotton candy and rainbows. I couldn't read it all, it was terrible. Dean, that's gonna happen to me and then I'm gonna end up like _him_ and I'll be _broken."_

"No." The word falls out of my mouth so fast it even surprises me, and Sam is looking at me with those _eyes._ "No." It comes out firmer that time, "you're not gonna end up like that. I'm not gonna let that happen to you."

"But Dean-" Sam tries, "what if that's what you said the first time?"

"It's not." I insist. Because it can't be. If I had made that promise to Sam before, I would have kept it. I know I wouldn't have let my little brother become that.

"Dean." Sam says, voice calm and low, and how the hell did that happen? Why was Sam the calm one in all of this? "I don't think you even remembered this at all. How could you stop it if you didn't even remember it happened?"

"I'll remember, I swear this time I'll remember. I have to."


	18. All Good Things

"I promised you." Dean says, breaking the cover of silence that had fallen over us. He's standing a few feet away, rubbing the side of his head as if a headache was forming there.

"Promised me what?" I question, and he pauses to look up at me.

"I promised you that I wouldn't forget what happened. I told you that I would save you from—from this!" He cries, throwing his arm out towards me as he does.

"That wasn't on you Dean. You were a kid. You couldn't have just—forgotten, alright? Something had to make you. I know you didn't just neglect to remember everything you saw, I know you didn't just give up on me." I tell him, stepping up to him and resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Staring into his eyes I continue, "I don't blame you, so don't blame yourself. It was always going to end up like this, right? We're alright. We can move past this mess or we can dwell on it for the rest of our miserable lives. I'd rather it not be the latter, okay?"

"Okay." Dean nods, sharply, before pulling away and turning his back to me, "I just don't know how I could have forgotten."

-GNS-

"Who the hell are you?" John asks sternly, standing still in front of his sons, who are passed out on the motel beds, like a shield.

The man with the cold blue eyes opens his mouth to speak, "I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord, I have been assigned with the task of erasing all of your memories of the past few days." He's standing there, rigid like a statue. No real life in him at all. He's possessing some poor soul by the name of Christopher Novak, if his nametag was any explanation. He had black, salt and pepper hair, and stood a half a head under John himself.

"You aren't going to do anything of the kind." John growls, sliding his colt out of the belt of his jeans.

"I am sorry to say that will be of no help to you." Castiel replies, disappearing before John's eyes. Suddenly he shows up again by the boy's bedsides.

"Sam will not remember any of this. It is damaging to know one's future world as he has." Castiel says, before placing two fingers on Sam's forehead. The sleeping figure shifts, but otherwise shows no indication on what has been done to him.

"Don't touch him!" John exclaims, firing a round through the Angel's back.

"I told you, that won't be of any help." Then he turns to Dean, and does the same. "Dean will remember, but not until much later in life, when he needs the memories again. He must not attempt to change their fate." Castiel explains. "I will go now."

"What about me?" John wonders, "won't you make me forget everything as well?"

"No." The angel states simply, tilting his head to the side. "It is imperative you remember these last days, and tonight also. It is what you have learned about your son and his fate from all of this that sets him on the path to get there. It is the cause of his resentment, his anger, his leaving. If I took your memory away, there would be no point in taking theirs. I know you will try to change what happens because of what you know, but remember: What we fight to control is most usually the thing that defeats us. Goodbye, John Winchester."

A flutter of wings and he is gone. John is left standing in the middle of the quiet room, more alone than he has ever been, with the weight of a secret he can _never_ share.

-GNS-

"Do you think Dad knew?" I ask one day, as we're driving down the road. The sun is shining, the air is hot but the breeze is cool, and my arm is hanging out of the window as the world flies past us. It's a question I've thought about a lot since getting back, only now deciding to ask. Kansas is blearing out of the speakers and Dean cranks the music down so he can hear me.

"What'd you say?" He asks, cocking his head towards me.

"Do you think Dad knew? About those days I was there, everything I told him about our lives? Do you think he knew?"

"Probably, Sam. I remember noticing a difference in him after, I just never knew why. So yeah, I guess he probably knew something we didn't." Dean decides, tapping his fingers along to the beat against the steering wheel. He doesn't seem too bothered by the knowledge.

"D'ya think it would have changed anything? Had he not known, or had we all known, or something?" I breathe, staring out into the horizon as if I'm going to find my answer in the sunset.

"I think the real question you should be asking yourself, Sam, is does it matter? Would it really make a difference in how you felt about the life, or about the man himself?" Dean responds, glancing over at me.

"No," I say, "No, probably not."

"Then you shouldn't get hung up on wondering, Sammy. You can't go back and change things, so you just have to let it go." Dean advises, cranking the music back up.

We're driving toward the horizon, not another pair of souls in sight, and I've come to the conclusion that all good things must end. Even though it's not a sunset kind of day, I can't help thinking driving off the face of the Earth towards this particular sunset, would be a pretty good way to end.


End file.
